


And So We Cover the Stars

by NightHerald



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Incest, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:44:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3893434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightHerald/pseuds/NightHerald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grasping of his loneliness will only bring him greater woe, but he has never been able to turn away when something he desires is presented before him. </p><p>Throne sex. Dubcon for drunk sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So We Cover the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic, so feedback would be appreciated.
> 
>    
> Takes place before The Hobbit. Elvish translations at the end.

Through the hewn corridors of the Woodland palace, the Elvenking walks alone. The lanterns strung along his path seem to falter at his passing, like the stars that are dimmed by the coming of the sun. The halls are quiet tonight; the music of the falls – so familiar to him now it is as natural as silence– is all that can be heard save for the whisper of his robes that glide across the stone. His people either sleep or enjoy the stars outside.

He finds this a relief as he winds along the narrow walkways that lead to his throne. His mind has been plagued by ill thoughts of late. He desires solitude, away from his chambers that at times feel as stifling as a tomb. Ordinarily he would seek out the stars in moments such as these; ever have they quieted his mind. But it would be folly to continue ignoring this woe, allowing it to surface at its leisure. His throne grants him a sense of perspective, allows him to view things from a more objective height. They must be dealt with, these thoughts – they may be a result of the darkness creeping into his mind.

He ascends the steps to his throne and seats himself, crossing his legs. Moonlight filters into the cavern like shining stalactites pouring from the ceiling, and Thranduil gazes upon it as he allows himself to sink into his thoughts.

Some time passes the Elvenking by until, gradually, a scuffing sound intrudes upon the quiet. Absently, he seeks the source of the noise – far off, lurching along the twisting path to his throne, he recognizes the figure of his son. Thranduil straightens slightly in his seat and watches him approach with concern; it is unusual for elves to lose control of themselves in such a manner, meaning he is either injured or worryingly inebriated.

Legolas staggers up to the throne and bows with a flourish. “King Thranduil,” he slurs, cants forward and stumbles. He giggles at the unusual sensation. Definitely inebriated then.

“What is it you want, Legolas?” Thranduil asks in a put upon tone.

“I want... I want...” Legolas steps forward unsteadily, arms held out before him for balance, and pauses as though he cannot recall the reason he came. His cheeks are a shade of pink that gives him an appearance of vulnerability he rarely displays. He toddles over to the stairs and proceeds to trip on one of the bottom steps. He loses himself in giggles, stooped over the stairs on all fours. Thranduil watches him with interest; he has never seen Legolas so drunk.

“Adar,” his son says, and begins to crawl up the steps like a toddler. Inadvertently, a lock of hair becomes trapped beneath one hand, so that when he tries to move forward he jerks back with a sharp cry.

Thranduil worries he will actually fall off. He'll have to escort him to his chambers later; for an elf to lose control of their hröa to the point he cannot even stand decently, he would not be able to heal properly from an injury. Honestly, he's never encountered such a tipsy drunk before. It is no wonder Legolas rarely indulges.

Finally, Legolas makes it to the top. He does not bother with standing, but crawls until he is kneeling before his king. Thranduil raises an eyebrow.

“Ada.” Legolas places his hands on one of Thranduil's crossed knees and rests his chin atop them, reminding Thranduil irresistibly of a child peeking over the top of a writing desk, wondering what his father could possibly be doing that's more important than playing with him. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and he leans to the side and rests his cheek against his fingers while he contemplates his son. This is not a diversion he needs at the moment, but his son hasn't called him _ada_ for centuries. Besides, he is an immensely entertaining drunk.

“Ada,” he repeats, and Thranduil's smirk widens into a true smile. For a few moments, Legolas simply blinks up at him. Then he slides his head down so his forehead rests against one knee, and breathes a sigh that warms his other knee through his leggings. Thranduil shifts uncomfortably. At that slight movement Legolas looks up, and in his eyes is a look he has never seen there before; his breath catches in his throat.

Thranduil swallows convulsively, the smile vanished, and leans forward to place a hand on his son's shoulder. “Legolas, I think it would be best – “

Legolas catches the hand, the burning intensity in his eyes unwavering. He finally drops his gaze, turns the hand over thoughtfully, and licks the palm.

Thranduil's lips part. “Legolas – “

He runs his tongue between the index and middle finger, then takes them into his mouth. Thranduil shudders and draws in a ragged breath. Legolas looks at him through his lashes as he slowly pulls them out, cheeks hollowed as he sucks. Heat stirs Thranduil's loins – where had his son learned such lewdness? Legolas grasps his hand in both of his and drags his mouth down until his jeweled ring disappears behind those lips.

Thranduil groans and looks away. He can't imagine how much wine his son must have consumed to compel him to perform such a depraved act, but he must put a stop to it. He gently removes his fingers from Legolas' mouth, curls them, absentmindedly rubs his thumb over the wetness. He arranges his face into a stern mask, and turns his gaze upon his son.

Legolas looks stricken. “Adar, please.”

Thranduil shakes his head. “If I allow this to continue, I would be taking advantage of you in your drunken state.” He says the next part with as much gravity as he can manage, leaning forward slightly in his throne. “You who are my son.”

Legolas' gaze flickers away. “Do you believe I drank so much for no purpose?” he asks of the arm of his throne.

Thranduil stares at him, unable to think of a response to that. Not willing to examine the implication hiding there.

Legolas places a hand on his knee again; it's trembling, Thranduil notes vaguely. His son's overly bright gaze returns to his face as he leans forward beseechingly.“It is possible, if we do it in this manner. Our fëar will not bond.” His eyes are wide with desperation. “It is not a betrayal or – or a sin.”

“An excuse, nothing more,” Thranduil says, waving a hand as if to dash the words from the air. He is hardly able to believe he's having this conversation with his son. “The deed is still the same, you are merely erasing it's consequences.”

“If there are no – if there are none then why –“ For a moment he struggles with his words; then he seems to deflate, hand sliding to the ground, and rests his forehead once more against Thranduil's knee. It appears Legolas has reached the limit of his coherency. “ _Please_.”

His voice is high and plaintive as a child's. The thought makes Thranduil's conscience twinge to remember how his body reacted to his son's ministrations. Looking at him now – pink ears, hands twisted together between his thighs, fair hair slipping off his shoulder – he can feel desire stir in his belly. It sickens him how difficult it is to push him away. His son looks broken, hiding his shame in his father's knees. He has laid bare his innermost self, and Thranduil knows Legolas will never be able to look him in the eye again, will never be able to function naturally in his presence. He may even leave entirely to escape his shame. His heart twists – his son is all he has left.

Thranduil places a hand atop Legolas' head. He runs his fingers through the tresses, gently lifts a lock away and lets it slide over his fingers like a ribbon. His son's hair gleams like starlight. He grasps the end before it can slip away and brings it to his lips.

Legolas lifts his head from his refuge and stares at his father with wet eyes. Thranduil holds his gaze steadily, allows the lock of hair to slip from his fingers and fall against his shoulder. He sits back.

Legolas licks his lips, tentatively rubs a shaking palm up Thranduil's thigh. When he meets no objection he carefully uncrosses his father's knees. With a sigh like a sob Thranduil closes his eyes and allows Legolas to push his legs open.

A wave of arousal washes through him as he spreads his legs for his son, causing his member to strain at the ties of his leggings. He never expected to feel this way again after his wife departed. A new type of guilt grips him as he thinks of her. He should resist, send Legolas away. He knows the terrible consequences a poor decision can bring. How small each step in a wrong direction seems, until you look up and find your path is one of woe, the realization that it could have been avoided had you simply planted your feet more firmly into the ground a heavy helm that bows your head. Yet here sits the Elvenking, allowing himself to be led astray by his inebriated son.

The grasping of his loneliness will only bring him greater woe, but he has never been able to turn away when something he desires is presented before him.

He has no excuses.

Legolas, settled now between his legs, rubs both palms up his thighs, until his fingertips brush the bulge that lies between them. Thranduil watches with his fingers curled over his mouth as Legolas pushes aside his robes and caresses his arousal through his leggings. The moment seems surreal. He sighs into his fist and rubs himself up against his son's hand.

Legolas shoots him an uncertain look, as though he didn't expect to come this far and is now unsure how to proceed, before clumsily un-knoting the restraining ties and freeing his arousal. He stares at it with wide eyes, wraps trembling fingers around the base and slides his hand up it's length. Thranduil groans low in his throat, watching intently. Encouraged by his reaction, Legolas pumps his fist up and down until Thranduil's chest is heaving. All is quiet but for the rush of his breaths, the chafe of his son's fingers, the distant fall of water. He feels molten, as though the caresses are lighting his veins like candle wicks. Legolas halts and looks at him, then tugs at his leggings until he lifts his hips, and pulls them down.

Thranduil glances around the sprawling cavern and briefly resolves to relocate to his chambers. The halls are empty, yes, but there is still the risk of someone happening upon them while they are preoccupied. But Legolas' flushed face looks so eager, and his body burns with an old fire, so he never quite manages to act on the decision before he is distracted once more as Legolas takes hold of his cock. He runs his tongue along it, licking a hot stripe up the shaft. When he reaches the tip he places a chaste kiss to it, then takes it into his mouth and _sucks_ so that Thranduil throws his head back with a strangled moan, marveling once more at his son's strange knowledge. Legolas stills at the sound, and soon he is engulfed by wet heat as his son takes him fully into his mouth, a moan vibrating through his cock and sending a shiver of heat through his body like the plucked strings of a harp. Thranduil watches with fascination as his son's head bobs over his cock – it's the filthiest thing he's ever laid eyes on, yet instead of recoiling in disgust he finds he can't look away. Soon every breath is forced out of him in a sigh. He fists a hand in the silver hair before him and resists the urge to thrust into that encompassing heat. It has been so long since he felt pleasure such as this.

When Legolas pulls away he is panting, blowing puffs of air that feel cool against his wet cock and make him shiver with pleasure.

“Ada...” His son looks up with lust-dark eyes. “Ada, I want –“

Legolas' lips are bright red from use and glisten with moisture.

Thranduil tugs on his hair. “Come here.”

Legolas pushes unsteadily against his thighs, and Thranduil drags him onto his lap and crushes their lips together. His son's kisses are sloppy but earnest, his breath hot against his face, and Thranduil tangles a hand in his hair and _pulls_ so that when Legolas cries out he pushes his tongue into his open mouth and swallows the sound. Legolas moans as their tongues slide against one another. He tastes of wine and salt, and something intrinsically _Legolas_. Thranduil growls low in his throat; the knowledge that this is his _son_ he is tasting causes a desperate sort of passion to swell beneath his skin – he can't get close enough, no matter how hard he clutches the back of his son's head or digs his fingers into his side. His hardened cock lies trapped between his stomach and Legolas' thigh, and he undulates his hips in a futile pursuit of friction.

Thranduil breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. “Do you want me inside you?” he asks roughly.

“Yes! Oh ada, yes!” Legolas looks delirious with alcohol and lust. One of his legs hangs over the curling antler that juts out from the throne's back, and his hair is mussed where Thranduil's hand clutched it. He finds he rather likes it that way.

“Then get these good and wet.” He presses his fingers against Legolas' lips, and they are obediently taken into his mouth until they are slick with saliva. “Good,” he says. “Now pull down your leggings.”

Legolas moves so he's straddling Thranduil's lap and has to rest his head on his shoulder for balance as he wiggles free of the restrictive clothing. Thranduil breathes in the sweet scent of his hair – a scent familiar to him for centuries, but which has become strange in recent years for the desire it evokes in him. He feels his son's erection brush against his own and Legolas stills, then presses against him more deliberately.

“ _Ada_ ,” he groans, and Thranduil shivers to hear that endearment uttered in such a tone. Legolas grasps both their cocks in his hands and rocks his hips. Thranduil's soft gasp is drowned in his son's wanton moan. He slides his left hand down Legolas' side, grips his soft bottom and grinds his hips against his son's, wringing another moan out of him. With his other hand he runs a slick finger up his cleft, circles his entrance, pushes in. Legolas keens and grips Thranduil's upper arms.

“Does it hurt?” Thranduil asks.

Legolas shakes his head. He pushes in deeper until he's up to the knuckle, rubs against his inner walls. His son moans into his neck, pushes himself back against the finger. His cock drags sweetly at Thranduil's, causing his finger to flex involuntarily inside him, and Legolas whines right into his ear. Thranduil huffs a breath of a laugh, which he immediately sucks back in when Legolas retaliates with a bite to the tendon of his neck.

Thranduil pulls out and adds a second finger, then a third, twisting and scissoring and thrusting until Legolas is keening with every breath. When he deems his son sufficiently prepared he removes his fingers, spits into his palm, and rubs the saliva over his cock.

“Stand and remove your leggings,” he commands, staring past his son's head, his eyes seeking to reassure him of their solitude. Thranduil keeps a firm hold on Legolas' arm so he doesn't topple off the platform as he pushes off his leggings and boots. He stands without shame before his king, flushed and panting, bare from the waist down, his tunic bunched over his erect and leaking cock. Lust silences any objections his conscience may have raised, and Thranduil can only admire the sight. “Turn around.”

Legolas does as he's told, and Thranduil grabs him about the waist with his left arm and drags him back onto his lap. He holds him to his chest, waits for him to arrange his feet on either side of his thighs. He licks a line up his son's neck, feels him shiver against him, and kisses and sucks until Legolas is sighing and gripping the arm rests.

“Ada,” he says, his voice plaintive in a way that makes Thranduil's blood sing. “Ada, I want you. _Please_.”

His body is on fire, and as he lines his cock up with his son's entrance it's all he can do to not ravish him. Gently, he nudges the head in and Legolas throws his head back against his father's shoulder, mouth open in a voiceless cry, hand scrabbling at the arm holding them together.

“Does it hurt?” Thranduil asks, voice strained.

“No,” he says breathlessly. “Yes. I want more.”

Legolas is in no fit state to know what's good for him, but surely he would not be so eager if he found no pleasure in this. Slowly, Thranduil pushes in, halts when he is fully sheathed in that tight heat. He marvels at the way their bodies are now joined, a connection he never allowed himself to dream of sharing with his son, and wonders if Legolas is having a similar moment. He gusts a shuddering sigh against Legolas' shoulder, kisses the damp skin at the crook of his neck, reaches around to grasp his son's cock and begin stroking it. The grip Legolas has on his arm is almost painful, his breathing high and loud – he is yet untouched, his body unaccustomed to such treatment. Thranduil will attempt to ease the experience for him, but he himself has never coupled in this manner; he must not allow himself to be carried away.

“Alright?” he asks, nestling his face into his son's neck.

“Yes.” Legolas wiggles around a bit. “ _Please_.”

He doesn't wait for Thranduil to comply, but lifts his backside and sinks down again with a shuddering gasp. Thranduil's hand on his cock stills and his arm tightens around his waist, fingers digging into his son's hip. Legolas leans forward to support his weight on Thranduil's knees and begins to ride him, bouncing up and down with breathy little noises. Even with the shallowness of his son's movements, Thranduil's breathing grows loud in the quiet that surrounds them. He holds Legolas still, pulls his body flush against his, leans back against his throne for leverage. He runs a hand along his son's length and thrusts fully into his heat.

Legolas' cry is loud and carnal, all inhibitions lost in a haze of lust and wine. It makes Thranduil's breath catch in his throat, his hips buck upward with unheeded force. His son's inner walls drag at his cock but after a few thrusts he slides in more smoothly. He soon finds a steady rhythm, his bare backside leaving the throne with every thrust. The feel of his son's body around his cock, against his chest, in his hand, makes his body glow impossibly hotter. Thranduil buries his moans in his son's shoulder, but Legolas continues to cry out freely, head thrown back and oblivious to all but his father's cock spearing him over and over.

Fingers scrabble at the hand gripping Legolas' arousal, and Thranduil looks down to see his son wrap a hand around his own, their fingers twined as together they stroke him. The sight soon has him thrusting in abandon, their bodies meeting with a slap that rings through the empty hall.

Legolas is beside himself with ecstasy, crying out with every breath. “Ah! Ada! _Ada_! _Yes_! There! Right _there_! ” Warmth fills Thranduil's chest, as though the sun is nestled in the space his heart would be, to know he is bringing such pleasure to his son; in this moment he feels there is nothing he would not do for him. Thranduil kisses his jaw, his cheek, and when Legolas turns his head he captures his lips. His son reaches up and entangles his fingers in his hair, sending pleasant little shivers along his scalp as he tugs, mewling into his mouth.

Thranduil can feel heat coiling tight within his belly. His thrusts become more erratic as the end approaches. He is soon pounding into his son's body, feeling every jolt that runs through it as he thrusts up again and again, and they are crying out against each other's lips in their shared ecstasy.

“ _Ion nîn,_ ” Thranduil groans.

Legolas climaxes with a carnal wail. The hand in his hair clenches painfully, and his seed spills over Thranduil's fist where it wrings the last of his pleasure from him. His inner walls contract and spasm around his cock, and Thranduil is soon pulled over the edge after him, pouring liquid heat deep into his son's body. When it's over he can't recall what manner of sound he made.

Now spent and contented, they relax into each other – Legolas' hand falling heavily onto his thigh, Thranduil feeling his son's breathing and matching its rhythm. Legolas is still sitting on his softening cock, but Thranduil does not yet have the energy to move him. Without opening his eyes, he manages to fish a handkerchief out from his robes and clean his son's seed from his hand.

Legolas rolls his head against his father's shoulder. “At times, the men of Esgaroth talk about sex amongst themselves,” he mumbles. “They seem to be rather obsessed with it. I can see why, I think.”

Thranduil hums. He's sure the words hold significance but he can't quite make a connection, so he files them away for later. In the meantime, he places a kiss to his son's head, his shadow dimming the shimmer of his hair. Legolas stirs, moves so that Thranduil's flaccid cock slides out of him, and he curls against his father's chest like a child. Thranduil wraps his arms around him and rests his cheek against the crown of his head.

They stay like this for a time, the afterglow of climax fading like the sun slipping behind a cloud, until Thranduil blinks the afterimage from his eyes and finds he can see clearly again. His ripped-out morality lays in cold tatters around him, and he is left with the feeling that some integral part of himself has been crushed into an unfamiliar shape with edges that jab at his insides. He does not know how he will bear the pain of it.

“I love you, ada,” his son murmurs, tucked against his chest, oblivious to the tears that seep into his hair.

Legolas falls into drunken reverie, leaving Thranduil alone with his guilt.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing smut is hard. No pun intended. The pronouns are a nightmare.
> 
> I just made up some nonsense about alcohol creating something of a disconnect between an elf's fëa and hröa so they can have sex without bonding. It's not really important if it's plausible or not.
> 
> Also, drunk Legolas is my favorite Legolas.
> 
> Also also, Tolkien says in his writings that elves are attracted to beautiful hair and singing voices, so I tried to incorporate that in there. And my Thranduil has a bit of a treasure fetish. ;)
> 
>    
> Elvish translations:
> 
> hröa/hröar – body/bodies
> 
> fëa/fëar – soul/souls
> 
> ada – papa
> 
> adar – father
> 
> ion nîn – my son


End file.
